


Towards a Storm

by QueenOfSloths



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys arrives at Winterfell, Drama, F/M, POV Sansa Stark, Political Alliances, Post Season 7, Sansa is not too happy about it, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 21:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSloths/pseuds/QueenOfSloths
Summary: Jon & Daenerys arrive at Winterfell. Sansa won't accept a new ruler easily. Conflict ensues.





	Towards a Storm

Sansa’s eyes flutter open and she meets Daenerys Targaryen’s curious gaze.  _So this is to be our future Queen_ , she thinks, pulling Jon closer.

_He’s mine_ , she wants to say,  _and Arya’s, and Bran’s. He belongs to the North. He is the king we chose._

Daenerys tries to look proud and unimpressed, but Sansa knows it’s just an illusion. She may have fooled the smallfolk, who all stare at her with a mixture of fear and hope on their faces, but she cannot fool Sansa. She’s still a girl–just as Sansa is–playing the big game.

She’s just slightly better at it, that’s all.

The hug appears to last a millisecond too long, Sansa notices Arya’s frown and gently pushes Jon away. She tries to smile apologetically at his seemingly wounded expression.

_This is weird_ , she thinks as she fights the need to bury herself in Jon’s embrace as soon as there is no longer a point of contact between their bodies. The cold she hasn’t felt since the moment she saw his face at the gates–it’s back.

Sansa is the one who turns away first. She rushes towards Jon’s company and smiles politely.

“How kind of you to respond to our King’s call so fast, Your Grace,” she says, meeting Daenerys’ eyes but deliberately neither bowing nor curtsying.

Daenerys looks slightly annoyed, but it is Tyrion who answers.

“I believe there has been a misunderstanding. The King in the North has pledged his fealty to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, thus making the North one of the Seven Kingdoms again. Has the news not reached you, Lady Stark?”

How cunning he is, how wordy… A true Lannister, albeit kinder and less power-hungry than his sister.

“Oh, I apologise. I got the impression that we had some conditions to be met before our King bends the knee.”

“Conditions?” Daenerys asks, looking between Sansa and Jon. “I don’t remember there being any conditions.”

“Really?” Sansa continues innocently. “Nothing about defeating the enemy to the north?”

“The enemy  _will be_ defeated.”

“I am glad to hear that, Your Grace.”

“But you still refuse to acknowledge my dominion, is that it?”

“You will be our Queen soon enough. My brother strongly believes in your capability to defeat the Night King, and I trust him completely.” She can hear Jon exhaling loudly behind her but she doesn’t turn. “We have the chambers prepared for you and your company. I imagine you would like to retire and warm up before we call a meeting. Lord Tyrion, lord Varys,” she turns to Daenerys’ advisers, “I am glad to see you alive and well.”

“Likewise, lady Stark,” Varys says sweetly. “Look how tall you gotten, fair as the moon, yet hard as steel. You remind me of your lady Mother.”

Years have passed, and somehow it still hurts Sansa to think of her. How many times has she woken up, scared and cold, and wished Catelyn Stark could be there to braid her hair, or kiss her forehead? How many times has she swallowed the tears and held her head high, thinking: “Mother wouldn’t cry. Mother would be stronger”?

“Thank you, lord Varys. That’s very kind of you,” she hears herself answering in a calm, dispassionate tone.

Jon’s gloved hand brushes against her forearm as he takes a step forward to stand alongside her.

“It’s cold outside, and we are all tired. Let’s leave all the small talk for a later time.”

As everybody rushes towards the castle, Sansa dares herself to look at Daenerys again, and finds her still glaring at Sansa with hostility.

Jon won’t be happy about how she treated his future queen and wife, Sansa is sure he will confront her as soon as they are left alone. Something inside her yearns for that confrontation–oh, there are so many things she wants to yell at him for.

She refuses to move even after the last person vanishes behind the heavy castle doors, trying to decide what her next step should be. The lords will not accept this, they will not accept  _her_ , Sansa doesn’t doubt it in the slightest. Is her role as the Lady of Winterfell to stand behind them and try and enforce their wishes? Or does she sacrifice the northern independence for the greater good?

_What would Father do?_

Jon clears his throat and takes a step towards her, she can feel his warm breath on her neck when he leans in and whispers into her ear: “We need to talk.”

Her voice comes out colder than the icy wind when she answers: “Then talk.”

“Not here.”

“My solar?”

“After you.”

It’s all quiet and polite, very ladylike of her, very kingly of him. But they both know they are now sailing towards a storm–and it will be loud, and brutal, and destructive. They know that even though they will both get out of it alive, they will never be the same.

Her heels echo across the empty halls. She doesn’t look back.

 


End file.
